


A Vicious Motivator

by DaringlyDomestic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcoholism, Anderson is an ass, Anderson is definitely not straight, Anderson is maybe a bit of a slag, Except maybe he does....a little bit, M/M, Mycroft couldn't care less about him, The Fall - Freeform, There's a case here if you really squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2020-08-14 12:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20192554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic
Summary: After the Fall, Anderson is put on suspension and ultimately fired from the Yard. He descends into a dark spiral, fueled by lack of purpose and obsessive research relating to the events of That Day. A crucial discovery leads Anderson to seek help from the one person who may know more than he is telling, but Mycroft Holmes refuses to work with him. Unwilling to give in, Anderson decides to follow the breadcrumbs on his own until a critical mistake forces Mycroft to intervene. Will Anderson unravel the mystery of the Fall or will the pursuit of the truth be his ultimate undoing?Forced to discover who he is without his job, Anderson finds something (and someone) about whom he is passionate.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Otter_Von_Bismarck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otter_Von_Bismarck/gifts).

Philip Anderson cannot remember the last time he’s stepped foot in any place resembling hallowed ground. Frankly, he’s surprised he doesn’t burst into flame upon entry. His left hand clasps the wood panel in front of him so tightly that his fingers have gone white. The fingers of his right hand, however, tap a staccato rhythm that betrays his unease. 

The severe-looking woman sitting next to him turns and glares. His usual shallow reserve of patience has already been depleted by the shit week he’s endured, and that was before Lestrade forced him to attend this pointless exercise. The injustice of it all is eating away at him and his previously free Saturday. Anderson wants to rip the ridiculously garish, stupidly large hat from the severe-looking woman’s perfectly coifed head.

Instead, he exhales hard and focuses his attention on stilling his obstreperous right hand. He’s sitting in the last pew in a small stone church on the outskirts of London white-knuckling his way through an overly-zealous clergyman’s overly-long sermon about the benefits of a virtue-driven life and the glorious bounty that awaits those who believe.

Anderson snorts at the thought. He doesn’t believe in God, and he’s damn sure that Sherlock didn’t either. The irony of the moment makes him giggle, and he finds that he can’t stop.

The severe-looking woman shoots him a scowl that tells him she is currently contemplating his murder. A decidedly unchristian act, Anderson thinks. The thought does nothing to contain the hysteria bubbling up inside of him. 

Trying to pass it off as a coughing fit, he ducks his head and checks his watch. The man has been at the pulpit for nearly forty minutes, surely he must be almost finished. Anderson gets up and all but sprints through the door.

Once outside, he doubles over and lets the laughter loose. He leans against the stone facade of the building while he gathers himself. He struggles for breath and is dismayed to find that his laughter has turned high and ragged. He wipes angrily at his eyes while his body spasms with the effort of his hysteria. It is several minutes before the humorless mirth abates enough for him to straighten up. The suit jacket Lestrade had forced him to wear is probably getting scuffed by the stone, but Anderson doesn’t much care. He has little use for it these days.

Although it is still early in the year, the humidity in the air makes his shirt damp and tacky with perspiration. It clings uncomfortably in all the wrong places. He can feel it straining against the five extra pounds he’s put on this month. 

Anderson slides his mobile out of the inside pocket of his jacket and thumbs through his contacts. He finds Donovan’s number quickly and tries not to think about the fact that he has less than twenty-five stored numbers.

_You didn’t show._

It’s not a question.

Three dots appear as Donovan begins typing her response. Anderson looks out at the churchyard while he waits. His eyes catch on an ebony tombstone glinting resplendent and accusatory in the sunlight. A heap of freshly turned earth sits next to a foreboding black expanse in front of the grave marker.

The buzz of an incoming message jerks his attention back to his mobile.

_You did?_

Anderson rolls his eyes in annoyance. All that time and that’s the best she could come up with? He pretends not to see the question underlying her response:

_Why?_

If he is being honest with himself, he’s not entirely sure why he is here. Lestrade had threatened him into coming, but normally he would have ignored that.

His pulse races and the hair on the back of his neck rises. Anderson is overwhelmed by the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. He scans the churchyard, but sees no one else. Of course there’s no one else around. Everyone is still inside listening to the service like normal, grieving, empathetic people.

Sweat beads between his shoulder blades, and he shivers despite the humidity of the day. Anderson decides to ignore the subtext altogether.

_Obviously._

Donovan’s response comes much quicker this time.

_You’re such a dick._

Then almost immediately.

_How’s he doing?_

Donovan has a soft spot for the doctor, even tried to warn him off being friends with the freak in the beginning. Too bad he didn’t listen.

Before he can respond, the doors of the old church open and a stream of mourners pours out of the building. There are only a few faces he recognizes. Lestrade makes deliberate eye contact. He looks disappointed.

Anderson shrugs and keeps looking out at the crowd. He can’t answer Donovan’s text because he hasn’t seen him. Although that may be because he was seated at the back. The doctor would have been up front, wouldn’t he?

The last of the mourners exit the church, and Anderson verifies his hunch.

**John didn’t come.**

He wonders if the man’s absence is deliberate or if he is physically unable to attend. The last time he’d seen John was the day Sherlock jumped. He’d been nearly catatonic at the time - a shrunken, diminished husk of a man.

Anderson blinks hard and looks to the sky. Nothing about this day would have been acceptable to Sherlock. He types back slowly without specificity.**  
**

_He would have hated it._


	2. One Year Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year after the Fall finds Anderson still on suspension from the Yard. Struggling to fill his days with meaning, Anderson finds himself drawn back to That Day. The answers provided by Kitty Riley's expose have not stood up to the scrutiny of the past few months, and Anderson has questions that need answers.

The sound of skull cracking against pavement is one that he will never forget.

It’s shocking the first time he hears it. He’s never dealt with a suicide on land. Everyone always seemed to want to jump into the Thames. He supposes there’s a certain illogical reasoning to wanting a “soft” landing.

You would think, after all these months, he would be used to the sound. But as Anderson resets the tape for the thirty-seventh time this evening, he braces himself.

He eagerly examines every aspect of that day trying desperately to find a clue, some indication that he missed some vital evidence. There must have been something he missed. He struggles as his ardent desire to unlock this mystery battles with his abject horror at the truth of what had happened.

His finger hovers over the play button for several seconds. He sees the replay in his head. Knowing the events by heart hasn’t stopped him from obsessively rewatching the tape. He sighs as he gives himself over to procrastination. Anderson decides that he can’t stand the clutter of the room one moment longer. It needs a good cleaning before he does anything else.

The coffee table is littered with old takeaway cartons, and once the detritus had covered all the horizontal floor space, the room had started to accumulate small mountains of beer cans. A topographic map of his own malaise and melancholia.

Anderson lifts and swirls the nearest can. Less than a quarter remains, and the can is tepid. Clearly not his most recent. He looks around, trying to identify a newer can, but finds that he can’t make sense of anything amidst all the clutter. He gives the can a resigned look and downs the beer in a single gulp. His nose scrunches at the unpleasantly warm, flat taste.

He sighs as he picks up the nearest abandoned carrier bag and starts shoving rubbish into it. It’s full after just a few handfuls, and Anderson can’t see any discernible improvement. He ties the bag shut and flings it toward the door. He’ll take care of it tomorrow.

He rubs his bleary eyes and checks the clock. It’s 2:54 am. He really should be trying to sleep, but he knows from experience that this will be one of those nights. It’s not actually the sound of Sherlock’s skull breaking against the unforgiving concrete or the blood that pooled beneath his crumpled body that haunts him. It’s the soft, inhuman noise John Watson made as he crumpled to the ground next to the detective.

As often as he watches the video footage of that day, he can never keep his eyes on the screen for that part. Shame flares inside him as he remembers the words he hurled at the detective. It had always felt two-sided, like a vindictive game of table tennis. Sherlock would lob an insult his way, and he would volley one back.

Now, after that day at Bart’s, he questions his actions. He’d never known Sherlock to listen to anyone or anything (except maybe John Watson).

Had the man been listening all along? Had “Freak” been the final straw? Was he the reason Sherlock was dead? Had he provided the final push that sent him pinwheeling over the side of Bart’s Hospital that day?

He sniffs and blinks his gritty, bloodshot eyes. He’ll get no sleep tonight. He heads into the kitchen and grabs another beer from the fridge. The shelves are pretty bare, apart from the rows of cans glinting in the harsh light of the florescent bulb. He can’t remember the last time he had real food in. His vision swims in and out of focus as he stands back up, and he can feel bile rising in his throat. If those are supposed to be signs, Anderson is too drunk to notice.

He stumbles back to the cheap futon that serves as his sofa and presses play without any hesitation. The video is playing in real time, but Anderson sees it as if it were in slow motion.

A small black shape tips over the edge of Bart’s Hospital. The whole street seems to freeze as everyone watches. A heart-wrenching cry of “Sherlock!” Then, the crack of skull on pavement. The mobile drops from John’s hand as he steps into the path of an oncoming bicyclist.

Anderson flinches but does not look away. He pauses the video and sighs with disappointment. Nothing he hasn’t seen in his thirty-six prior viewings.

He’s surprised to find that his beer can is empty again. That can’t be right. He’d only just gotten a fresh one. He throws himself backward on the futon and lifts his legs to stretch out. His head spins with the motion.

Thoughts swim through his mind, haggard and disjointed:

_A tinny dial-tone, insistent buzzing - a phone call;_

_Dark, smooth, dangerous syllables._

_Laughter - high and desperate._

_Blue sky._

_Wool coat._

_Screaming - someone is screaming._

_Oh God._

_Flailing. Lorry._

_CRACK!_

_Shattered. Bicycle. Bruising. Breaking;_

_Crashing. Crumpling - John._

_ Holding:_

_ A cold, pale wrist;_

_ A long-forgotten mobile;_

_ Back tears._

Anderson’s eyes flutter shut as he tries to block out the images that won’t stop coming.

_No. He’s my friend. He’s my friend. Please!_

John Watson had always been by Holmes’ side. It had always been expected. Where Sherlock Holmes went, Dr. Watson was sure to follow. But on that day, John had looked terrifyingly small where he knelt on the pavement. His hands sweeping over his friend’s crumpled body, letting blood soak the knees of his trousers._  
_

_Oh Jesus. No. God. No.  
_

He’d seen John that day, after -_  
_

He’d been one of the first on the scene. There hadn’t been much for him to do since the body had already been wheeled away, so he took John’s statement. He dutifully wrote down the few words John managed to force out before doubling over and being sick. He’d bagged John’s mobile as evidence, and then he’d joined his colleagues on the roof._  
_

He’d actually been glad to get away from John. There was too much there, too much feeling, and Anderson felt like he was intruding on something private. He’d happily collected what information he could from the roof, helped bag the few possessions Richard Brook had on him at the time, and left. Looking back, the lack of personal affects should have been surprising. Brook had only had a mobile phone, the recovery of which under any other circumstances would have guaranteed the D.I. a knighthood, and a gun._  
_

Anderson opens his eyes and rewinds the tape. He watches John back out of the frame. He watches Sherlock fly from the pavement back to the top of the building. He watches a small black object float back into Sherlock’s hand._  
_

Anderson pauses the tape as he chokes on his own excitement.

The mobile!_  
_

What happened to the mobile?

Not John’s mobile. He’d given that back himself after the inquiry. He remembers that day vividly. The Yard finally wrapped the inquiry a few months after the funeral. He’d gone to see John at the squalid little flat he’d moved to after leaving Baker Street. John had opened the door, seen him, and clocked him dead in the jaw. Anderson had been stunned at the pain blooming across his face.

At the time, he was shocked, but he didn’t fight back. If he’d bothered to set any expectations about the visit, he would have expected worse. He had counted on John’s anger, but he had been greeted by a cold, vacant gaze instead. After punching him, John had stared through Anderson as if he wasn’t there.

He shakes away the memory and tries to refocus. He’d been thinking something important, hadn’t he?

It takes a moment, but then it hits him. Sherlock’s mobile had not been recovered from the scene. Anderson would know. He’d been consumed with the case for months. There had only been two people on that roof and both were now dead. Mobiles don’t just disintegrate and disappear. Someone must have taken the mobile from that rooftop!_  
_

He reaches hastily for the stack of papers on the side table, knocking over three other precarious piles to which he pays no mind. He flips quickly through the stack, searching. He knows the list by heart, but somehow he needs the confirmation of seeing it in print.

Finally, near the end of the stack, he finds it. A copy of the police log detailing all personal items collected at the scene. He scans the list several times. Each time is the same:

Recovered: One (1) mobile phone belonging to Mr. Richard Brook.

One (1) Beretta 92FS handgun belonging to Mr. Richard Brook.

A thrill of excitement shoots through him, and Anderson smiles for the first time in weeks. He always knew something was wrong with this case. It just never sat right with him. It didn’t add up, but he hadn’t had a proper lead since the whole affair began.

Now, he finally has proof. Sherlock is dead. Brook is also dead. But there must have been someone else on that roof. Was that person pulling the strings all along? Anderson doesn’t know, but he is going to find out.

Someone either was present or got onto that roof before Scotland Yard. Someone who took Sherlock’s mobile.

Anderson resets the tape for the thirty-eighth time. He knows the reels by heart, but somehow, this time feels different. This time he knows what to look for.

Someone else was on the roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital that day. Anderson is going to find out who, and, more importantly, he is going to find out why.


	3. Uncouth Physical Intertia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson seeks answers at the Yard. His efforts are thwarted, and he gets information of an entirely different (but no less devastating) nature.

Anderson’s head is pounding, and his sunglasses are doing little to lessen the stark penetration of the morning rays. It is unusually sunny for London this time of year. The glare off the cars parked along the street in front of his flat seems like a personal affront. Anderson curses his luck as he locks his door and throws the carrier bag of rubbish from his late-night cleaning escapade into the bin.

He sets off at a brisk clip, eager to get to the Yard and escape the unforgiving sunshine. It has been a long time since he stepped foot in the office. His return is sweetened with the novelty of having a legitimate lead in a case.

Anderson, in his inattentive haste, knocks into his neighbor who is crouching down to trim the hedge. He can’t be bothered to stop, but he reaches down and pulls the old man up by his arms without breaking his stride. He hadn’t been moving very fast and the hedge had been there to break the man’s fall, so he can’t be seriously injured. Probably just a bit of shock, Anderson reasons as he hurries off down the street, leaving his neighbor cursing and brushing the soil from his trousers.

It takes him a good forty minutes to walk to work, and he is sweating lightly with exertion. Small rivulets of sweat drip from his brow, and the desk sergeant gives him a look of disgust as he passes. He knows he should go to the locker room and clean up, but he is too excited. Instead, he heads down to the evidence locker quickly before the desk sergeant can strike up a conversation or inquire about his morning.

In a stroke of unexpected luck, Williams is on duty. The man moved to London to work for the Yard just after the debacle at Bart’s. He’s never met or worked with Sherlock Holmes, and Anderson thanks an unseen force he does not believe in for putting Williams on the desk today. He won’t know enough to wonder why Anderson wants this specific file. He won’t ask why he’s so invested in the case when he never had any interest in the detective while he was alive.

As Anderson enters, the man looks up and gives him a warm smile.

“Williams,” Anderson acknowledges.

“Good morning Mr. Anderson, sir,” the man chirps in his high Irish lilt. “Welcome back!”

Anderson suppresses an eye roll at the unnecessary enthusiasm.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” he continues. “I need to see the log for case 16221.”

Williams agrees readily and tells him it will only take a moment to pull it up on his computer. Anderson props his hip on the desk and drums his fingers. He needs to pace himself or his impatience will get the better of him.

After what seems like an age, Williams clears his throat.

“If you don’t mind me saying, sir, I would have done the same thing if I had been in your shoes. Any one of use would’ve! That man was a right terror from what I hear. And then they went and suspended you for doing your job. I couldn’t believe it. The Chief Superintendent was furious, obviously. It was a pretty poor showing for the Yard at the end, but you couldn’t have known that going in. Gregson got lucky because he wasn’t really involved after the Banker case, but still...”

The computer beeps interrupting Williams’ unending monologue.

_Thank Christ._

“Ah! Here’s the case. Just let me pull up the full file...”

Williams trails off and frowns hard at the screen. His forehead crinkles into sharp furrows that he seems too young to have acquired just yet.

“What?” Anderson snaps in irritation. The young man’s inexhaustible cheeriness is getting under his skin. As a rule, he doesn’t really do small talk, and he’s used up his store of patience waiting for Williams to retrieve this file.

“Um… well, the case has been restricted.”

Anderson is livid. His jaw is clenched so tight, he has to force his next words out through his teeth.

“Oh really? Who by?”

Williams checks the file. “D.I. Lestrade, sir.”

It’s the name of his commanding officer that sends him over the edge and into a rage.

“What do you mean restricted! That’s not standard procedure for an open and shut suicide. Are there notes in there? Does it say why it’s been restricted?”

He can feel himself getting too loud, but he can’t stop. He is so close to the information, and he wants it desperately. Tracking down this lead might just earn him back his place on the force, and he isn’t about to let it slip through his fingers. Anderson clenches his fists until his knuckles turn white.

“It doesn’t say here,” Williams stutters. “I can just call him and…”

“Don’t bother,” Anderson interjects before the man can finish.

He turns on his heel and storms out of the room. Fueled by his anger, Anderson takes the stairs, feeling each solid strike of his sole as a symbolic _fuck you_ to everyone who is keeping the details of this case from him. His heavy tread beats a satisfyingly steady one-two rhythm that matches the thump-thump of the boiling blood in his veins.

Anderson’s barrage of derision for his superior officers cycles through his mind on a loop: Fuck Lestrade! Fuck Gregson! Fuck the bloody Chief Superintendent!

When he reaches the top of the staircase, Anderson throws open the door with enough force that it cracks sharply against the wall and almost hits him before he can make his way through. Cursing the wretched thing, he manages to catch it before it breaks his nose.

He quickly scans the bullpen and spies Lestrade strolling toward the conference room at the far end. Unwilling to miss his window of opportunity, Anderson quickens his pace to reach the D.I. before he gets stuck in whatever stuffy, interminable meeting is about to start. He is so focused on reaching his quarry that he is taken completely by surprise when pain explodes across his abdomen. The world suddenly tilts on its axis and his head and his feet change places.

_What the hell?_

When the world finally rights itself, Anderson is sat on the floor, legs akimbo. His right shin is throbbing, and the pain in his tailbone is so sharp that his vision swims.

Two uniformed PCs having an argument over whether or not Newcastle United really should have won last night look down at him but walk right by. None of the sergeants sitting nearby so much as look up from their desks. They are all first aid certified, a requirement for the job, and not a single one can be bothered to so much as ask if he is okay. He is not a particularly well-liked coworker, but what kind of mad world has he fallen into where Scotland Yard’s finest fail to do even the bare minimum job required of them?

From just outside his peripheral vision, a throat clears startling him. The sound is a rich deep tenor that sends a shiver down Anderson’s spine. He has to crane his neck to get a look at the interloper.

The man behind him is bureaucracy personified. His clothing is impeccable. Tailor-fit, if Anderson had to guess. This man does not work at the Yard. He’d bet a year’s wages on that. No one in the building could afford that three-piece bespoke suit. His shoes are polished to within an inch of their life, and his Italian silk tie is knotted in a vicious double-Windsor.

His auburn hair is slicked with gel and neatly styled, as only a proper British gentleman would do. Anderson is struck by the man’s strong aquiline nose and severe eyebrows. Altogether, Mr. Bureaucracy is quite a foreboding figure.

The man sighs with exasperation. He must think Anderson is absolutely barmy. After all, he has spent the last minute or so sitting on the floor staring wide-eyed at the man. Anderson is surprised when the man reaches out and offers him a hand.

Not quite trusting the offer, Anderson looks the man in the eyes and searches for an ulterior motive. If history is to be a lesson, this will be used to mock and ridicule him for months to come. Is this going to become another office joke?

The man gives him no reason to believe otherwise, but Anderson doesn’t think so. Astonished at his own foolhardiness, he grasps the outstretched hand. He has a million questions about this tall, strong, pin-striped man. Unfortunately, Anderson is just getting to his feet when Lestrade decides to show up.  
  
Anderson is so enthralled by the man in front of him, that he startles when the D.I. clasps him firmly by the shoulder. The other man withdraws his hand and moves away. He neither acknowledges Anderson’s presence nor looks in his direction.

“Oh my god,” Lestrade gasps. He is laughing so hard that he can barely speak.

“Thank Christ we have video surveillance in here because if I had missed getting that on tape, I would never have forgiven myself.”

Lestrade motions both men toward his office. The D.I. is still chuckling but leads the way and offers Anderson the sofa once they are inside. It takes Anderson several moments to settle on a position that doesn’t send fire shooting through his body making him want to tear all the hair off his head, but he does eventually manage. Only then, does he dare look up. Lestrade is clearly fighting back a smirk, but there’s genuine concern in his eyes as well.

“Sorry, mate,” he says, “but that was fucking hilarious. You went complete arse over tit! I mean, that was a proper midair flip. Don’t think you could do that again if you tried.”

Anderson, not really finding the humour in the situation, pulls up his right pant leg to check his aching shin. He’s surprised to find a large gash about half way up that is bleeding rather profusely.

Seeing the blood, Lestrade sobers a bit and hands him the nearby box of tissue.

“I know it’s been a while since you’ve been here,” he starts, “but did you seriously forget about the railing? The hip-height iron-barred barrier that separates the zookeepers from the monkeys?” Lestrade gestures toward himself and then away, illustrating his point.

Anderson rolls his eyes. He doesn’t appreciate Lestrade’s flippant tone. He knows what the railing is. He’s not a toddler. But the D.I. is on a roll and doesn’t notice Anderson’s mounting impatience.

“You can’t walk through a solid barrier, for Christ’s sake! I mean, you do remember how to operate a gate, don’t you?”

That last comment stings. Of course he remembers how to operate the gate. It’s equipped with an electronic badge reader that allows Yard personnel to access the bullpen. However, not all Yarders have the necessary clearance to swipe into the bullpen. Trainees, civilian administrators, and officers on suspension are among those who are denied access.

Even if he’d been paying attention, he wouldn’t have been able to get through the gate by himself. Anderson seethes. He has had just about enough of the D.I.’s shit.

“Fuck off,” he mumbles as he focuses his attention on cleaning his leg, hoping that the amount of blood is not an indicator of the depth of the gash. He really doesn’t need to spend god-knows how many hours in the horrifying purgatory that is every ER waiting room, not to mention the added aggravation of looking after stitches.

Lestrade, realizing his mistake, sighs heavily. “Yeah, alright. No need to get all defensive. I was just taking the mick.”

He walks briskly over to his desk and pulls a surprisingly well-stocked med kit out of the bottom drawer. He kneels next to the sofa and starts unpacking its contents onto the floor. Lestrade finds a wadded up roll of gauze and presses it into Anderson’s hand.

“There you go. That should sort you. Looks like heavy bleeding, but I don’t think it’s as deep as all that.”

His face is less than a foot from Anderson’s leg, which doesn’t seem particularly sanitary. Honestly, it makes Anderson a little uncomfortable. He gasps at the sharp pain that rockets through him as he presses the gauze to the wound. He bites down hard to keep himself from making any more embarrassing noises and applies consistent pressure to stem the bleeding.

After several moments, he peels the gauze back, folds it in half to reveal a clean field, and inspects the gash. Lestrade is right, as bloody usual. It’s not as deep as he first thought. He definitely won’t need stitches.

Anderson is just pressing the gauze back to his leg when that deep, smooth tenor interrupts the proceedings. He jerks in shock at the unexpected intrusion and his pulse races. How long had the man been standing there? Anderson had completely forgotten about him in the haze of Lestrade’s mockery and his injury.

“Forgive me, Detective Inspector, but we had an appointment. Did we not?”

The man’s eyes rake over Anderson once, head-to-toe, and then refocus on the D.I. No words are spoken, but Anderson is left with the creeping feeling that he has been found wanting. He wracks his brain for something clever or insightful or interesting to say to draw the man back in and engage him in a longer conversation. But it seems that every original thought he’s ever had has fled. He certainly is not going to ask Mr. Bureaucracy for his opinion on the weather. The man’s face is impassive and his tone is unreadable.

At the mention of their appointment, Lestrade jumps to his feet as if chastised. He brushes furiously at his beyond-creased trousers.

“Of course! Of course. Just getting Anderson sorted out. He took quite the tumble earlier. Well, you were there! You saw.”

Giving up the trousers as a lost cause, Lestrade circles the room furiously searching for his suit jacket. His face is painted with desperation as he fails to locate the blasted thing.

“Yes, well, I only accounted for a thirty minute meeting.” The man sniffs haughtily and adjusts his cuffs links. “That leaves us just under ten minutes to discuss.” The man’s pronunciation is clipped and sharp, making the sibilant “s” at the end of the word hiss through his clenched jaw.

The silence stretches between them, and when no one moves, the man quirks his eyebrow at Anderson before looking toward the door.

“Why don’t we move this to the conference room...” Lestrade starts, but he stops suddenly when the man whips his umbrella out from the crook of his arm and blocks the doorway.

“No need,” he says with finality. “This is your office, is it not?”

Lestrade never takes meetings in his office, so Anderson is shocked at Lestrade’s swift capitulation.

“Fine!” He snaps, yanking his trouser leg back down. His petulance wins out as he drops the now bloody gauze on the floor. He practically leaps off the sofa and stumbles as he regains his equilibrium. Refusing to be embarrassed by the momentary gaffe, he closes the space between the sofa and the doorway in a few steps.

Mr. Bureaucracy moves the umbrella, permitting him to pass, but Anderson stops when he draws level with the man.

Some things demand explanation.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” He asks angrily.

Lestrade blanches. “Anderson!”

The man waves away Lestrade’s fumbling apologies. The only outward sign of his displeasure is the momentary flutter of his eyelids at Anderson’s vulgarity. He turns and makes direct eye contact for the first time since entering the room, and Anderson feels a familiar stab of vulnerability.

After what could only have been a moment, the man speaks.

“Philip Anderson, newly single..._again_. Condolences, I’m sure. Though your philandering was the motivating factor. Going forward, best not to muddle your personal life with your profession, yes? Though who knows what that will be now. Where does Scotland Yard’s former forensic scientist go from here?”

Anderson takes a step toward the infuriating man and glowers.

“If you’re referring to the thing with Donovan, you don’t know what you’re talking about. There were other contributing factors at the time and...hang on!” Anderson stops himself mid-tirade as the implications of the man’s previous speech dawn on him.

“Did you say, _former_ forensic scientist?”

He looks at Lestrade, who stares blankly at his own shoes and refuses to look at him.

“But I’m only on suspension. I’ll be back on duty in a few weeks?” He argues, but the man is already shaking his head.

“No.”

Now, it’s Anderson who turns pale.

“What do you mean, no? That’s what they said, at my hearing. I’ve been given a suspension but will be returned to active duty in...”

“No,” the man says again - quiet but firm.

Anderson feels his knees buckle and leans heavily against the door frame. His eyes are prickling and his throat feels tight. Who the ruddy hell is this guy?

He doesn’t realize he’s spoken out loud until the man answers.

“I don’t see how that is of any consequence to you, given that we will have no occurrence to see one another again,” the man says as he crowds into Anderson’s personal space. Anderson takes a few steps back to avoid coming chest-to-chest, but the other man keeps coming.

“However, if you must know, my name is Mycroft Holmes. I now need to speak with Detective Inspector Lestrade, and you’ll need to be getting on your way. That’s enough to be getting on with, don’t you think? Good day.”

With that, the door clicks shut in his face. Anderson stands there staring at it like it will suddenly sprout a mouth and give him answers to all the questions running through his mind.

He is furious. His pulse is pounding in his temple, his breathing is fast, and his clenched fists enclose his sweaty palms. He has never met anyone that has enraged him so thoroughly upon introduction; however, he is also fascinated.

He has no idea what the hell just happened, but he knows one thing: Mycroft Holmes owes him a few answers.


	4. Proving a Practical Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shared ride in a lift forces a conversation. Anderson explains his promising new lead, tempting Mycroft to join forces to solve the mystery and figure out what really happened to his brother.

Exactly eight and a half minutes later, the door to Detective Inspector Lestrade’s office opens. The tip of Mr. Holmes’ umbrella is the first to exit, tapping a steady rhythm at the side of its enigmatic owner.

Cutting a swift path toward the lift, his general aura of impatience parts the crowd ahead so that his cadence never falters. Officers across the bullpen move quickly out of his way, watching him out of the corners of their eyes, and avoiding direct eye contact. There is a thrum of power surrounding the elder Holmes brother that makes them feel as though he exists above the realms of ordinary men. It makes them wary.

Holmes has barely pressed the call button when the lift doors are sliding open to admit him.

Anderson watches in irritated amazement from behind the column just to the right of the lift. That lift is the dread of every Yarder assigned to the floor. It is notoriously slow even though it had only been put in a handful of years ago. 

_Is it possible that the man is simply that lucky? _Anderson thinks testily. _Perhaps the man timed his exit. He might have had an accomplice ride the lift up and meet him at the prearranged time. After all, that would explain his rigid insistence on the timing of his meeting with Lestrade._

When the doors open, however, the lift is empty and no one disembarks.

_Clearly he didn’t have a partner timing the lift’s arrival._

There is no one else waiting, and shortly after Mr. Holmes enters, the doors begin to shut.

Sensing his window of opportunity closing, Anderson darts out from behind the column and sprints to the lift. Squeezing through the narrow space between the door panels, he barely makes it through in time.

The slightly annoyed expression on the other man’s face thrills Anderson in a small, petty way he doesn't care to examine too closely. He imagines that the momentary lapse in that cool, calculating mask of indifference is as close to surprise as the man comes in public.

Anderson clears his throat and the look melts back into indifference. Mr. Holmes fixes his gaze on the doors and doesn’t speak. Clearly, he hopes to ignore Anderson's very existence on the short journey between floors.

Unwilling to be ignored, Anderson steps smoothly forward and quickly pulls the red emergency stop knob. Before the other man can object, the lift jerks to a stop. At the same time, Anderson turns so that his back is to the lift panel, blocking Mr. Holmes’ ability to reengage the motor or call for help. He crosses his arms and stares.

The other man brushes a piece of lint from the cuff of his suit jacket and sighs.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Anderson?” he asks. His tone is polite but forced.

Anderson reels at the question. He hadn’t had time to plot out this conversation. He’d barely thought before springing into action and stepping into the lift. He hadn’t considered what to say once he’d made it inside. Anderson has so many questions, it’s hard to pick a place to start.

“Who are you?”

He hears the question leave his mouth before he’s even registered his curiosity. The man shoots him a look of disdain and refuses to answer. Apparently repetition is beneath him. _Must run in the family, _he thinks wryly. 

“Don’t be stupid. I remember you name, _Mr. Holmes_,” he sneers.

“You want to know what I do,” Mr. Holmes states. It’s not really a question but he waits for Anderson’s confirmation.

“I hold a small position in the British government. Nothing flashy. Nothing you would have seen in the papers,” Mycroft tells him in a flat tone. He fidgets with the umbrella handle grinding the tip into the floor of the lift. He seems almost bored with the direction of the conversation.

Anderson is not really convinced that he’s been told the truth, but he has more pressing questions for the man.

“Alright,” he says, letting it drop. “What were you here to discuss with Lestrade?”

The man’s spine straightens, and he glares.

“Official Yard business. I’m not at liberty to disclose the details as you do not have the proper clearance and are no longer an employee.”

“How can you possibly know that?” Anderson asks, voice rising and betraying his desperation. “They haven’t even told me yet. That kind of thing is supposed to be confidential.”

“I know someone who sits on the committee. I believe it was only decided last night. The D.I. seemed taken aback as well, so I don’t think he’d been informed yet either.”

Anderson nods blankly. Mr. Holmes has shown him absolutely no proof. He could be making it all up, but the man’s every action drips with authority. His words have the ring of truth, and Anderson lets the despair wash over him.

Mr. Holmes leans into the wall behind him, clearly uncomfortable with Anderson’s display of emotion. He looks like he wishes he could put more distance between the two of them. Several minutes pass in strained silence. Mr. Holmes’ tongue runs over his front teeth, forcing his lip outward, and he grimaces.

“The delivery could have been handled more delicately, I admit.”

It’s an apology of sorts, and it sounds foreign and unrehearsed. Mycroft Holmes is not a man who is used to seeking forgiveness.

Anderson, unable to must any true anger at the blunt announcement, waves off further explanation.

“’S fine,” he manages to choke out. He takes a few moments to beat his emotions back into submission. There will be time to fall apart later. He won’t get this opportunity to question Mr. Holmes again.

He swallows and clears his throat. “Should have expected it, really. My suspension was almost up, and I hadn’t heard anything about coming back or next steps.”

The man remains silent. Anderson knows what his next question has to be, but he has no idea how to phrase it. Almost anyone would be put off by questions about their dead relative from a stranger, and Mr. Holmes keeps his cards pretty close to his chest. If he makes a hash of this, there will be no more answers.

“There was only one case I will regret not finishing,” he says, measuring his words carefully. “They’ve marked it closed, but it just doesn’t sit right with me.”

Mr. Holmes makes no reply, but he moves from his position against the wall to stand straight.

Anderson takes this as a sign of interest and continues. He lowers his voice and leans forward conspiratorially, as if letting the man in on a secret.

“Have you ever had a feeling you couldn’t explain? A hunch telling you to look deeper even if all the evidence seemed to point to a tidier narrative?”

“Once,” the man replies in a hoarse whisper, matching Anderson’s tone.

“Well, that’s how I feel about this case. It’s very important to me that I figure out the right answer.”

Mr. Holmes turns his piercing gaze on Anderson and asks, “Why?”

No longer afraid, Anderson meets his gaze.

“Because I made a mistake. I let my opinions color my professional judgment, and I was wrong.” He swallows thickly.

“Now, I can’t fix it. But I can make sure that the world gets the true story, not just that trash they’re printing in the Times.”

He can see the moment the other man makes the connection and understands what case they are talking about. His shoulders drop from their defensive position near his ears, and there is an indescribable melancholy in the quiver of his jaw. He takes a moment to weigh Anderson’s words.

Then, he asks, “What do you want to know?”

Finally, Anderson replies, “What happened to the mobile?”

Mr. Holmes crinkles his brow in concentration. “Why is the mobile important?”

“Because it’s not simply missing,” Anderson explains. “It was never documented as evidence, which means it was not part of our initial intake. I know it existed and that it was used because it’s visible on the surveillance tape.”

He pauses for a moment and prays that Mr. Holmes won’t ask him how he knows what is on the surveillance tape. Technically, he shouldn’t have had access to it since he was on suspension, but his on again-off again relationship with Donovan had its occasional uses. He’d seen the tape in her flat and borrowed it to make a copy. He’d only had the tape for twelve hours, and she’d never noticed it was gone.

Anderson decides it’s probably better not to give Mr. Holmes the opportunity to ask questions, and he quickly carries on.

“It was dropped on the roof that day,” he continues, careful to avoid all mentions of Sherlock or the events that immediately followed the dropping of the mobile. He’s not trying to be cruel, after all.

“However, by the time the Yard arrived, it had vanished. There was only one mobile phone taken into evidence at the scene, and that mobile belonged to James Moriarty.”

Mr. Holmes seizes on that name. “So, you believe in James Moriarty now, do you? I thought you were satisfied with Ms. Riley’s expose and all the details given by the renowned actor, Richard Brook.”

Anderson flinches but accepts the well-earned sarcasm dripping from the other man’s words. He had been the first to believe the details in the expose. Mostly because he had wanted to believe them. He’d never liked Sherlock. That was no secret. The man was snide and cruel, and he wielded his intellect like a weapon at those he deemed slower and dumber than himself. Anderson had often found himself on the receiving end of that laser-like derision, and it had put him off permanently.

But after Bart’s, he’d had time to really think about the expose and found it lacking. As juicy as the accusations were, they didn’t add up. He’d seen Sherlock at work, and there was simply no way the man could have orchestrated everything.

“I know Moriarty was real,” Anderson says. “But that won’t matter if I can’t prove it.”

He pushes the emergency stop knob back into place and the lift resumes its descent. The silence stretches between them, and Anderson chews his lip. He knows what he wants to ask, but he doesn’t know how it will be received. They are quickly approaching the ground floor, and Anderson summons his courage. He takes a deep breath and starts to speak just as the lift dings, announcing their arrival on the ground floor.

“Will you help me, Mr. Holmes?”

The other man fixes his penetrating gaze on Anderson for a long moment as the doors slide open.

“No,” he says sharply before gliding out of the lift without so much as a backwards glance.


	5. A Dominant Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson is left reeling from the loss of his job, Mycroft's rejection, and his own desperation to make sense of the clue he's uncovered. As luck would have it, he runs into an old friend on his way out of the Yard who may prove useful, if he can convince her to help.

Anderson, stunned by the abrupt refusal, stands rooted to the spot. Several people waiting to get on the lift clear their throats pointedly, but it has no effect on him. He blinks hard and moves slightly to one side as a woman with mousy brown hair reaches past him to push the button for the third floor. Dimly, he registers the familiarity of her face. He has met her before, but he cannot place her role or her name.

His thoughts swim - disjointed, fractured things that rise and rise like a tidal wave of word association breaking over him. He knows there is something he is supposed to be doing, if he can just hunker down and ride the chaos until it passes.

The lift is now fairly packed and the press of humanity around him makes the air feel thin. He struggles to drag sufficient oxygen into his lungs, and a cold sweat breaks out along his forehead. With great effort, Anderson forces his feet to move and makes it out of the lift before the doors slide shut.

He sighs as a refreshing stream of brisk London air flows in through the doors at the front of the building to caress his face. It’s a welcome relief after the stifling closeness of the stagnant air in the lift. Anderson turns and quickly strides toward the doors, noting that the desk sergeant has them propped open to admit a rowdy group of students visiting the Yard. He tucks his head and walks with purpose, hoping to reach the doors as quickly as possible and avoid any potential interaction. He hadn’t ever really gotten the hang of making small talk with the tour groups. The school kids were always particularly whinny, and their dogged determination to drag him into conversation always got under his skin.

_Not my problem today_.

The thought cheers him a bit as he pictures how the day will progress for his colleagues. The school tour groups always run over their allotted time, and the kids always have a million morbid, annoying, boring questions. He’s always had to work a double shift afterward to get all his work done - or he had done. Though Anderson had to admit that the late nights had not been without their perks. After all, that’s how he and Donovan had started being _him and Donovan._

He can still remember the way Donovan’s eyes had looked that night: bloodshot but alert thanks to the not-really-coffee-but-does-the-trick caffeinated sludge she had been drinking out of one of the Yard’s cheap styrofoam cups. She’d gulped quickly, periodically making small noises of disgust.

_The Yard really needs to invest in a proper coffee maker._

Donovan had been reading over his shoulder, one hip resting against the conference room table where he had been trying (in vain) to wrangle more information from the results of the autopsy.

Frustrated, he’d rolled his neck and ended up looking at the ceiling. He’d felt the heat of her gaze on his face, and when he’d turned, her calculating, brown eyes had hypnotized him. He’d taken in the puffiness of her weary lids and the severe slant of her eyebrows, noting that the case was clearly taking its toll on her as well. Her long lashes had fluttered shut as she drank the last of her coffee, and when they’d reopened, he’d been undone.

_How had he never before noticed the little flecks of gold softening her penetrating, deep mahogany gaze? _

A light pink blush had begun to paint its way across Donovan’s cheeks, but she hadn’t looked away. In that moment, she had been luminous.

He had spent too long looking at her and Donovan had gone completely still, though her chest rose and fell with increased frequency. He had watched her throat bob as she swallowed audibly in the sudden silence. Looking back, he couldn’t have said who moved first, but he’d never forget the feel of Donovan’s tongue slipping sinfully between his lips to touch and tease his own.

The memory hits Anderson so hard that he feels the sudden urge to get out now and never come back. He’s spent an indeterminate number of hours in this building, and now he never will again. He’ll be damned if he’s forced to walk these halls with the ghost of who he used to be lurking around every corner. In fact, it just might be time for him to make a change. 

As Anderson draws close to the front doors, it is odd and a little disconcerting to see sunlight streaming in. Frankly, he can’t remember the last time he’d ended a shift and walked out into the bustle of the city before the inky blanket of evening had settled upon it.

He reaches out, nearly close enough to pull open the doors, when a voice causes him to pause:

“Oi, tosser!”

Anderson squeezes his eyes shut and tries to take a few deep breaths before responding. He really doesn’t have the energy to face a row on top of everything else.

“What do you want, Donovan?”

His voice is still imbued with the sharpness of his stress, but he congratulates himself on forcing an even, almost pleasant tone.

Donovan’s bright, eager smile turns brittle as she takes in the state of him. He can feel her gaze like a physical touch as it sweeps from his damp hairline to his shuffling feet.

“What the hell happened to you, mate?” she asks, not bothering to modulate the volume of her inquiry.

The abrasive honesty is like a balm to his anxiety. After everything they’ve been through, it is reassuring to be able to count on her acerbic nature. As his breathing calms, and his pulse stops trying to pound its way out of his veins, he feels an odd rush of affection toward Donovan. 

“Oh, just had about the worst shit day you could imagine,” he replies, hoping he’s managed to sound conversational. “You coming or going?”

Anderson feels a flicker of guilt at having to ask. Before his suspension, he would have already known her shift schedule, but he hasn’t been very decent company these last few months. They’ve seen each other off and on, but Donovan had finally put her foot down when he’d stood her up for the third time in favor of a night down the pub.

Donovan crosses her arms, and her eyebrows pull down in a severe-looking scowl, but her mouth is doing something complicated that Anderson doesn’t fully understand. It kindles a warmth in his chest, and he find himself hoping that Donovan’s shift is ending. 

“I was thinking about getting some lunch.” 

The statement is offered like an olive branch. Not really an answer to his question, but an opening that he can choose to take. 

“Silver Cross?” he asks. He knows Donovan favors the steak and kidney pudding there, and he dares to hope that it may tip the scales in his favor.

She seems to weigh the offer, chewing on her lip. Her eyes hold a million questions, but she doesn’t give them voice. She tilts her head to the side, as if reading the intention behind his invitation. Whatever she finds must satisfy her curiosity. She pulls her sunglasses from her bag and slides them smoothly onto her face as she replies.

“Fine, but you’re paying.”

The walk to the Silver Cross takes less than ten minutes. It’s just gone noon, so the pub has a pleasant thrum of business. Based on past experience, it won’t get uncomfortably packed until closer to 2pm. Their usual table is unclaimed, so they settle quickly at the small, round table with the mismatched armchairs just off the bar. Donovan takes the softly padded beige chair covered in blue and white piping. It reminds Anderson of the sweaters that Molly Hooper wears. He sits opposite Donovan in his usual firm, leather armchair.

A thin wooden basket covering a sliver of the table holds ketchup, salt, pepper, menus, and a glossy flyer advertising the seasonal specials. The menus remain untouched. Neither one feels the need to pretend they are going to order anything other than their usual. But Anderson does pick up the flyer announcing two new seasonal gins.

Donovan coughs, loud enough to garner his attention, but is precluded from speaking as Tom, an overly enthusiastic young member of the staff, bustles over.

“Cor! But it’s good to see the twos of you again. It’s been a fair number of weeks now, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so. I’m meaning no disrespect of course! Just happy to have you back again is all. You want your usual order or were you thinkin’ of mixing it up, as it were? I’d be happy to make a few recommendations and whatnot...”

Anderson’s grip on the table becomes more and more pronounced until his knuckles are bleached white with the effort of withholding comment. His eyes are wide and pleading, begging Donovan to step in. She gives a sharp nod and raises a hand to call a halt to the monologue.

“Thanks, Tom. Could you be a dear and grab some samples of those new gins? Anderson is dying to try them! Aren’t you, mate?” Donavan asks, gesturing at the flyer still trapped beneath Anderson’s fingers. He catches a flash of something deep and murky in her eyes as she shoots him a glance. But by the time, she’s turned back to Tom, her expression is all innocence and doe-eyed sincerity.

Anderson stifles a snort as the lad nearly trips over himself in his haste to comply. When he turns back to the table, Donovan’s ditched the sickly sweet wide-eyed charade. He knows there’s a discussion to be had, but he dearly hopes it can wait until they’ve at least got their drinks.

Donovan shifts in her chair.

“So what are the offerings, then?” she asks, pointing at the flyer.

Anderson turns over the flyer so that Donovan can read it. At the top is a garish banner that proudly declaims the pub’s Gin Guarantee. “We’ll make you the perfect G&T or we’ll replace it for free!” Below, there are two seasonal gins on offer: Hendrick’s Midsummer Solstice and Sipsmith Orange and Cacao Gin.

“The Solstice,” Anderson begins, “is a deeply floral gin that offers a delightful and refreshing take on the traditional Hendrick’s as a tribute to the sensory powers of the Midsummer, when botanicals (flowers in particular) are believed to be at their most powerful.” He shakes his head and sneers at the ridiculous notion. Though he is pleasantly surprised when his mockery calls forth a chuckle from his companion.

“The Sipsmith,” he continues, his interest in explaining the gins a tad more genuine now, “is a modern take on a citrus gin with an array of botanicals from orange blossom to cacao nibs.”

Donovan crinkles her nose, and Anderson can’t help but agree. It doesn’t sound particularly good to him, but he’s not one to pass up a free sample.

Tom returns to the table with four shot glasses.

“A little taste o’ each for the both of yous. That’s what all’s called for, innit?” he says as he places a set of glasses in front of each of them.

Gesturing at the glass on his right, Tom begins what sounds to be a marathon-length sermon on the qualities of the Sipsmith Orange. Anderson lets the lad’s voice fade to a soft buzz as he picks up the glass. The warm familiar citrus buzz of a bright fruity gin is a welcome burn in his throat. It is immediately followed by the rich, darker tones of chocolate and the earthy taste of juniper.

The combination conjures half-formed memories of Christmases long past. The flavors are surprising evocative, reminding Anderson of raised voices and the overwhelming scent of too much spiced wine. The memory is sweetened only by the smuggled sliver of chocolate orange eaten in the makeshift fort he’d built under the never-used kitchen table.

He swallows down the memories and the last of the shot. His hand trembles as he places the glass back on the table. Vaguely, he notes that Tom is still going on at length about “fruity notes” and “treble tones” - utter nonsense. He rolls his shoulders, releasing the tension and chasing his own bitterness with the sample of Hendrick’s Midsummer Solstice.

He lets the floral bouquet wash over his tongue, leaving burning rivulets in its wake. The gin is a cool, refreshing taste of summertime. They’ve gotten that part right.

“I’ll have that one, Tom. Make it a double,” he says, cutting the lad off mid-stream. “It’s fruity and light and perfect for the time of year.”

_And it doesn’t remind me of the evening news blaring out at its highest volume setting to drown out the sound of my mother snuffling softly while the whole house smells of pine and cinnamon_, he doesn’t add.

Donovan grimaces as she forces her way through the second sample. She never was much for gin. She smiles politely and orders a Savino Merlot.

It’s the right choice, Anderson thinks. It will go well with the Steak and Kidney pudding she’s ordering. When it’s his turn, he orders the Scampi and Chips. It will undoubtedly be served with a lemon wedge. After all, seafood and gin make a great pair. Though he could do without food at all for the moment, he doesn’t think Donovan would approve of gin for lunch. Even after the day he’s had.

As if reading his mind, Donovan chooses that moment to break the unspoken truce.

“So, tell me about this shit day you’ve been having.”

Donovan examines her nails while she speaks, but her body leans in toward him across the table. She’s clearly invested in the conversation.

Not seeing a way out of it, Anderson sighs and downs half of the gin and tonic that’s just been placed in front of him.

“Well, Lestrade’s not pleased with me.” He knows it's a weak explanation and not the real issue, but it is true all the same.

Donovan let’s him talk around it, though. She wrinkles her nose and laughs.

“How could you tell?” she teases. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him be anything but displeased with you.”

“Cheers, Sal.”

He instantly regrets the nickname. He knows he shouldn’t have done that, but he had fallen back into the playful banter so easily that he honestly hadn’t thought before using it.

Donovan freezes, the playful smile sliding off her face. Her lips draw themselves into a austere line. To her credit, she recovers quickly, smoothing her features into a more neutral expression. But she doesn’t quite manage. Her eyes are hard and and full of accusations. Anderson catches a momentary flicker of something just a little bit vulnerable before she tucks it away under the curtain of anger.

“I didn’t...I mean..” Anderson struggles to find the words that will fix this.

“I’m sorry,” he says the words fast. They are all he has, and they are not enough.

“You’re always sorry, Phil.” Donovan’s reply is quiet.

The silence sits heavily between them. It’s not the companionable quiet he is used to sharing with Donovan. He’s gone and blown that comfort straight to hell.

“I got sacked today.” Anderson offers.

Donovan’s reaction is instinctual and kind. She knows what he’s like - what this means to him. She doesn’t speak. Maybe she doesn’t know what to say. But when he looks at her, all he sees is a soft place to land.

It lights a fury in him that is staggering in its strength. He is not something to be pitied. It’s just a job. There will be other jobs. Donovan doesn’t get to look at him like that. Not anymore. It’s not fair.

“I don’t need your fucking - “

“Here we are then,” Tom proclaims as he slides their plates in front of them. “Can I top you up there, sir?”

“Sure,” Anderson replies. He is entirely unsure when he finished his drink, but the conversation thus far seems to indicate he will need at least another one to get through it. Still lost in his thoughts, he barely registers Donovan’s reply.

“Just a glass of water for me, Tom. Thanks.”

The lad nods enthusiastically and rushes off.

Donovan doesn’t wait this time. She takes advantage of his introspection and cuts him off.

“You have no idea what you need, Anderson.” Her voice is calm but firm, and it cuts through him more effectively than if she had yelled.

“I try and I try and I fail every time. I don’t know how to reach you. I never know what is going to set you off. You act like a bloody child!” Her voice does rise now, and she struggles to keep an edge of emotion out of it.

“You’re clearly devastated. Of course you are. You’re allowed to be. You do know that, don’t you?”

Of course he’s allowed to be upset. He’s been sacked for Christ’s sake! He watches as Donovan starts on her pudding. She’s said her piece and is perfectly happy to let him soak it in before responding.

The sight of his Scampi and Chips makes his stomach churn. He pushes the plate slightly away to put some space between himself and the greasy smell.

He thanks the universe for its impeccable timing as Tom places a fresh gin and tonic in the newly vacated space in front of him. Donovan frowns as he takes a large gulp and smacks his lips. The Silver Cross really does make the best G&Ts in town.

“What?” he snaps at her. He’s had enough of her judgment today.

She shakes her head, but doesn’t respond. She just focuses on her meal and sips her water. Her impenetrable calm snaps the last thread of his self-restraint.

“No go on then. Say what you wanted to say. It won’t be a surprise to me. You’ve always got something to complain about.” He shocks himself at the venom in his voice.

“How the hell is anyone ever supposed to measure up? Hmm? It’s impossible. Frankly, I just stopped trying. Worked out well enough while it lasted. You didn’t seem to mind the drinking when it lead to fucking on the kitchen table or against the wall in the holding cell.”

The savage words rip themselves out of his throat, and it feels _fucking fantastic._

“You only have a problem with it now because you think you’re better than me. Well let me tell you something, Donovan. You’re not. I’ve had you on your knees and begging for me. Don’t you forget that.”

His chest is heaving as he finishes his tirade. Something tells him he should feel bad, but he can’t find it in himself to feel guilty.

Donovan has been looking at him wordlessly for a rather long time now. Why isn’t she angry? Usually she’d be hurling accusations back at him.

Now, she just looks sad. She gives a small resigned nod, like things have happened just as she thought they would though she’d hoped for better. She doesn't give him the satisfaction of a fight as she rises from the table.

Desperation clouds his brain, making his pulse pound in his temples. Donovan is leaving, walking away, and it feels like the end of something.

“Sal,” he pleads. It comes out high, almost a whine.

Donovan stops, her back to him, and draws a deep breath. For a moment he thinks she might turn around.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” she whispers.

In that moment, he knows they’re done. He watches her speak with Tom on her way out. The lad flushes, and Donovan laughs as she presses several quid into his hand. She knows Anderson will cover their bill, but she likes the boy enough to make sure he’s tipped well for his service.

Anderson curses his ability to muck up every relationship no matter how hard he tries not to. It just seems to be his lot in life. He lets the bleak truth of that thought settle onto his shoulders as he beckons Tom over and orders another round.


	6. An Unwieldy Frame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disappointed by the day's events, Anderson turns to the comfort of a good gin. A little too much leads to bad decisions and a break-in that brings him back into the sphere of the enigmatic Mycroft Holmes. What will happen when the man catches Anderson red-handed?

The steady rocking of the is car coaxing Anderson toward sleep. The familiar whooshing and click-clack of the rails is comforting until the car takes a sharp turn and Anderson is flung sideways into the unforgiving shoulder of a man who looks extremely unhappy with the impromptu contact. He can barely bring himself to mumble a half-hearted “sorry,” before his eyes flutter shut.

Anderson breathes deeply and instantly regrets the action. The sour curl of too much alcohol licks his throat, and he swallows down the nausea. The darkness behind his eyelids is blessedly cool and may be the only thing keeping him from being sick. His head pounds as he pictures the bright fluorescence of the tube lights illuminating the garish sights and sounds of the evening crowd packed into the much too narrow compartment.

Suddenly, he can’t wait to get off this bloody train. He’s not even fully aware of where he is, but he’ll take his chances at the nearest stop. He can’t have travelled too far.

A cool collected disembodied voice announces “Next Stop: Warren Street Station.” His brain dimly registers the fact that the voice is actually an announcement coming over the Tannoy.

Anderson is up and moving as soon as the doors open. He tries to thread his way through the onslaught of people but ends up knocking into most of them as he misjudges his distances. He’s not sure if it’s the drink or the nausea that’s causing the weaving at this point. Most people take one look at his pallid face and move wordlessly out of the way.

Following the signs toward University College Hospital, Anderson finds himself riding the wake of the other passengers making their way out of the station. He finds that summoning the coordination to raise one foot in front of the other and keep from tripping back down the seemingly unending staircase takes quite a lot of his focus. So much focus, in fact, that he finds himself on Euston Road without the foggiest idea how he got there.

Traffic is heavy. People zip by in their haste to leave behind the memory of the long boring day spent in their horrid, stodgy little offices. A bus careens around the corner. It’s so close to where Anderson is standing that he feels the wind of it buffeting his jacket.

He doesn’t want to deal with the pedestrian concerns of people jockeying around one another on the pavement. He wants a moment to himself in a place that doesn’t carry the yeasty scent of sweat or make his feet stick to the ground.

All at once, the whisper of a breeze through long, cool grass pops into his head, and he knows where he needs to go. Luckily, it’s less than a ten minute walk.

As he walks, Anderson pictures the peaceful, placid lake and pristine topiaries. He pictures the old bandstand and the regal fountain. But most of all, he pictures the steady silence of a solitary stroll through Regent’s Park at night.

The noise of the evening does fade into a low hum as Anderson enters the park. He’s surprised to find that the path along the southern end is relatively empty. Every now and then, he encounters a couple feeding the ducks or sitting a little too close on a solitary bench, but he doesn’t mind. He rather feels like the one intruding on their solitude after all.

As he walks, he can’t help thinking about the events of the day. He worries about Donovan and about whether he’ll be afforded a chance to apologize this time. Heaven knows he doesn’t deserve it. He wonders what he’ll do with his life now that he can no longer depend on the Yard to fill his days. He even wonders about Lestrade and worries about the pinched, strained look that has been permanently etched across his face these past few months.

But most of all, he can’t stop thinking about a constellation of freckles painted across fair skin. He can’t stop thinking about unruly ginger fringe slipping free of its brutally coiffed constraints as verdigris eyes snap to his. He can’t stop thinking about a dusky pale glow stealing over aristocratic cheekbones. _God, but he’d like to see that man again._

The thought is like lightning, rooting him to the spot. It’s been a long time since he’s been interested in anyone like this - outside of a bar or a bedroom. He’s used to the lust born of dimly lit backrooms. He’s used to the familiar dance of batting lashes and teasing smiles, “buy me a drink,” and “I’ll call a cab.” He’s used to the frantic pace of hands everywhere, lose your kit, shut that light off.

What is strikingly new is the electric crackle of silence stretching out far too long. The sting of intelligent eyes piercingly locked on his own. A tidal wave of questions asked without a single word.

What is new, to Anderson, is the prickling desire to know more about this man. He wants to know what Mycroft Holmes looks like bathed in the soft candlelight of a restaurant that Anderson can absolutely not afford. He wants to know if the man likes a good red wine and if he deigns to share his dessert. He wants to know if the man lazes about on a Sunday, sleep rumpled and soft in pajamas as he lingers over a cup of coffee.

Anderson wants to _know_.

Anderson _wants_.  
  
It seems his feet have carried on without any active participation from his brain. He finds himself halfway across York Bridge looking down at his reflection in the water below. He doesn’t look for very long. He doesn’t particularly like what he sees. His hair is askew and his clothes are mussed. He looks every bit as drunk as he feels.

It’s not very hard to understand why Mycroft Holmes refused his offer of working together. He probably only needed to glance at Anderson to see the truly disastrous state of his life. Anderson can’t even blame him, really. He’d not want to get involved with someone like him. Besides, he highly doubts the man can’t find someone more competent with Anderson’s skill set. He doesn’t need Anderson.

No, Anderson is the desperate one, clutching at his lead and hoping that Mycroft Holmes would oblige. He now sees how idiotic that was. He’d given up his hard-won lead without so much as a word from Holmes that he would assist. What more reason would the man have to continue their association? He’d sold his only bargaining chip without a second thought. Holmes had only needed to set that piercing stare on Anderson, and he’d willingly given it all up.

Disgusted with his own weakness, Anderson leaves the bridge and hurries toward the edge of the park. He isn’t all that keen to be alone with his thoughts any longer. As he crosses the perimeter of the park, the familiar sight of Baker Street sparks a reckless thought.

He’ll have to shimmy up the fire escape, probably, but Sherlock wouldn’t have let a little thing like that stand in the way of an investigation. No, he’d have used any method, even an invasive and highly illegal one, so long as it garnered results.

A little voice in the back of his mind chides Anderson that perhaps Sherlock ought not to be the true north by which he sets his moral compass, but he shrugs it off. To his knowledge, no one currently lives in the flat, and it isn’t as if he hasn’t tried alternative methods. He’s been flatly rejected by Mycroft Holmes, and John hasn’t been here in ages. He mostly sticks to his new flat, from what Anderson’s been told. There is no one to ask for permission, and Anderson still has just enough alcohol-fueled bravado to convince himself this is a good idea.

In actuality, chinning up the fire escape is a little more difficult than he expected. It takes him several tries, but Anderson eventually hauls himself, panting and swearing, up onto the fire escape in a graceless sprawl of limbs. He lays splayed out like a beached starfish and lets slow, deep breaths drain the flaming red of exertion from his cheeks.

Once he’s gathered himself, Anderson slides open the nearby window and swings himself into the flat. He’s surprised to find himself in a bedroom. A tall dresser adorns one wall, and most of the room is taken up by a large bed covered in fluffy white bedding. Not at all what he would have pictured of either man who used to live here.

Another quick glance around the room reveals a poster of the periodic table, several sketched insect studies, and a fencing certification. This room was unquestionably Sherlock’s. The realization sends a shiver down Anderson’s spine. It seems as if nothing has been touched, and Anderson gets the distinct feeling he is disturbing the place. It feels as though he’s walked uninvited into a shrine or a tomb.

He moves quickly to the hallway and carefully shuts the door behind him. Best to let sleeping ghosts lie. Wasn’t that the saying?

He shakes his head as he makes his way into the sitting room. It’s just as he remembers it. Two chairs sit facing one another in front of the empty hearth. The large antlered cow skull still hangs on the wall. For such a small flat, there always were an inordinate number of skulls about the place.

He shuffles over to the mantle and stares into the unseeing eye sockets of the skull that’s adorned it for as long as he can remember. He’d asked Sherlock about it once, and the man had mumbled something about it being a friend. _What a freak._

He runs his fingers along the ledge, brushing some of the dust off, until he reaches a pile of mail affixed to the mantle by a startlingly large knife. He imagines the doctor hadn’t been the one to do such a thing. It was just insane enough to have been Sherlocks’ handiwork. If it had been a letter opener, Anderson would have understood that. But a knife?

Intrigued, he yanks the knife from its resting place and sets it aside before flipping through the mail. It’s all several months old, and Anderson assumes the past due notices have been dealt with since. There’s absolutely nothing of interest in the entire pile - only bills - and he is about to toss the entire stack aside when a thick brown envelope catches his eye. It’s got the distinctive double E logo on the front, but that’s not what catches him off guard. It’s the post date stamped onto the envelope.

The letter is marked as having been sent only three weeks ago. A fact which seems impossible. Nothing else in the flat seems to have been touched. In fact, the knife itself had been dusty as he dragged it out of the mantle. Why would anyone have added a single bill to the pile?

Before he can think it through, Anderson is slipping the notice out of the envelope. Something about mail tampering being against the law floats through his mind, but it doesn’t take a solid enough form for him to latch onto. He pushes the thought away and focuses his swimming vision on the words in front of him.

The bill shows that the past due balance has been paid and announces the monthly charge for last month. Anderson skims the rest of the letter and checks the back, but it provides no further information. He searches the notice for the account number and finds the mobile number for the account printed near the top.

It’s not John’s number. At least, not the one John gives out. He fumbles his mobile open and searches his contact list until he finds the entry for "Freak." He really should change that. Bad taste in mocking the dead and all that. He opens the contacts and compares the numbers, hardly daring to believe the proof that is right in front of his eyes.

The numbers match.

What conclusion is he meant to draw from this? Sherlock’s mobile number is being kept up to date and active. The number for the mobile that disappeared from the roof of Bart’s is still active. For a moment, he considers dialing it just to see what will happen. But he stays the madness of the idea. That would give him away. He wants to dig deeper into this mystery before alerting whoever is using the mobile. Right now, they don’t know that he knows the number is active. That’s an advantage he intends to put to good use.

“Find what you’re looking for?” A low voice asks from the doorway behind him.

Anderson startles at the question, not having heard anyone enter the flat. His heart beats double-time as he takes in the arrogant silhouette of Mycroft Holmes leaning on his umbrella in the entryway of the flat.

“Ex-excuse me?” Anderson sputters.

He’s been caught snooping, and he cannot think of a single viable reason for him to be in the flat, especially at this time of night. That, and the fact that he entered by means of the fire escape, makes this a pretty damning situation. Knowing that anything he says will only add to the evidence against him, Anderson keeps quiet.

Holmes takes in the tableau. His gaze sweeps over the room before panning over Anderson with an unreadable expression. The only reason that Anderson knows he’s seen the bill is the momentary hesitation in the man’s visual scan as he stutters over the sight of the sheet clutched in Anderson’s hand.

Before anything can be said, Anderson folds the sheet and slides it into his pocket. His adrenaline pounds, and he glories in the recklessness of the night. He dares the man to say anything about it.

Holmes deflates before his eyes. His shoulders sink and his head bows beneath some unseen weight. Before the man had commanded respect, and a little fear. Now, he looks diminished, as if a strong breeze could carry him off. He rubs his temples and squeezes his eyes shut.

Neither man speaks until finally, “Would you like a lift home?”

Anderson’s head snaps up at the unexpected offer. His confusion must show on his face because Mycroft Holmes is laughing. A deep laugh that carves gentle lines around his eyes and softens his harsh brow. He turns to leave and beckons Anderson with a careless flick of his wrist.

“Come along, then,” he says, as if he knows Anderson will indeed follow.

Anderson finds that he is suddenly exhausted. He wobbles down the stairs and out into the chill of the late night air. He sways a bit as he waits for the squat middle aged driver to open the door of the vehicle.

He slides in as soon as the door is open, not waiting for further instructions. He hears a soft voice mumbling his thanks before Holmes is settling in next to him on the soft leather seat. The car smells of leather polish, and Anderson can tell it is well tended. His eyes alight on the built-in bar and a very expensive bottle of whiskey.

The gentle pressure of a soft hand sliding over his own, jerks his attention back to the other man. Holmes gives his hand a gentle squeeze before withdrawing his own.

“I think you’ve had enough for one evening, don’t you?”

The question is soft, but the implication hits Anderson harder than he cares to admit. This man hardly knows him, yet he thinks he can admonish Anderson for his decisions tonight.

“You don’t know the half of what I’ve been through today. I’ve been sacked, rejected, abandoned, and I think anyone in my shoes would agree that I’m entitled to drink a little too much tonight. You’ve met me one time and you think you know about my life. The fuck do you know about my life?”

Holmes continues to look at him with a soft expression Anderson cannot decipher. It’s a kind look, but there’s something almost sad underneath it.

The look is like a brand sending physical pain shooting through his chest. It’s a searing look, and Anderson lashes back. He wants this man to hurt the way he hurts.

“Why do you care anyway? You don’t know me. Don’t owe me anything. You looking for a new project? Take something broken and fix it up all shiny and new? Well, I’ve got news for you. I’m not going to be your next project, got it? I don’t need your _charity_!

He spits the last word as if it is a curse. His eyes are hard, and he’s breathing too fast, as if he’s just run a race. His pulse is pounding, but he has the distinct impression it’s for an entirely different reason.

Holmes shifts back in his seat and rests his head against the supple leather.

“You think too highly of yourself, Anderson. I’m merely offering you a ride home. You’re drunk, your flat is far away, and it’s rather late. That’s all there is to it. No need to read more into it than there is.”

A smile curls Holmes’ lip, and Anderson could almost think that the man is flirting with him. He runs his hand through his hair, sending ginger strands flying from their preordained places. The look on his face is almost pained, and Anderson regrets his harsh words.

“You’re not the first addict to reject my assistance,” Holmes continues with a deep sigh. His eyes slide closed as the rocking of the car lulls him.

Anderson takes in the vulnerability of the man so close to sleep. His face is slack and young in a way he hasn’t seen before. The bluish purple tinge coloring the area below his eyes betrays a lack of sleep. The fluttering of his puffy delicate eyelids is like the soft crinkle of gossamer tissue paper beneath the fan of his long ginger lashes.

“Should sleep more,” Anderson slurs.

Eyes snapping open with sudden alertness, Holmes is shocked by Anderson’s keen observation, especially while drunk. Though he supposes it’s not very hard to extrapolate from the fact that he’d almost fallen asleep in the back of his own car.

“I sleep fine,” he argues churlishly. Unwilling to give on this point. It feels a little too raw, exposed.

“Liar,” Anderson snaps, but it’s without any real heat. He finds that his anger has evaporated in the wake of this new discovery. He almost wishes he hadn’t said anything so that the man would have stayed in that half-waking haze of near sleep. An obscene part of him wants to know if Mycroft Holmes snores.

The car is slowing, and Anderson recognizes his neighborhood. He draws out his mobile and all but shoves it toward the other man, who blinks owlishly up at him as though he has no idea what to do with it.

“Tomorrow,” Anderson says in a rush. “Put in your number and I’ll call you tomorrow - explain the...” He flaps his hand in the air as if that covered the rest of the sentence. “Paper thing! I’ll call and explain the paper thing about the numbers.”

Holmes looks at him as if he still has no idea what Anderson is going on about, but he gives in and types in his number anyway.

Anderson, with his hand on the door handle, turns back one last time.

“Right, tomorrow then?”

Holmes, now sitting properly with all the elegant grace of an aristocrat, inclines his head and does not smile.


	7. A Masterful Brow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his alcohol-fueled evening, Anderson deals with the consequences and follows up on the promise of a new lead.

Anderson wakes and rubs the crusted grit from his lashes. He blinks rapidly, trying to keep the air from stinging his overly dry sandpaper eyes. The crinkled empty plastic bottle that he digs out from his rumpled bedding tells him that at least he drank water at some point before passing out. 

_Small miracles._

Throwing back the comforter, Anderson uncovers a crumpled foil packet. Crisps are strewn across the sheets leaving a fine trail of crumbs. The very sight makes him itchy. He gives in to the urge to scratch his armpits and is dismayed to find crumbs uncomfortably matted in his underarm hair. 

His head throbs violently as he rolls to sit up, but the incessant pressure of a full bladder is enough to carry him onto his feet and into the bathroom. 

After he fixes a pot of coffee and nibbles the crust off a slice of toast, Anderson begins to feel a little more human. While he eats, he reflects on the previous night. 

He has no idea what drove him to break into Baker Street. That insistent feeling of certainty has deserted him in the harsh morning light. 

Anderson relives the shivering pleasure he felt beneath Holmes’ intense scrutiny. He presses his eyes shut and can see the man exactly as he’d looked last night, rippling with the quiet confidence of absolute authority. The memory of the searing intensity of that preternatural gaze awakens something in his chest. The heated rush of arousal suffuses his brain as he remembers the pleading refrain that pounded repeatedly through his mind last night:

_Look at me, only me, and don’t ever stop._

He remembers wanting to say the words out loud with a tongue too clumsy with alcohol to form anything like coherence. Anderson wonders what Holmes had thought in that moment. _Had he been aware of the thoughts running through Anderson’s mind? Had he seen the desperation lurking just beneath the surface? Would he have welcomed such emotions? _

The idea of rejection from Holmes is too much for him to contemplate when he’s barely just woken up and still nursing a hangover. With a shock like being doused with a bucket of cold water, Anderson jerks his thoughts back to the present. 

He takes a few slow, deep breaths and concentrates on his immediate needs. He definitely needs to clean his bedclothes. He’s never particularly minded living in a cluttered home, but even he is disgusted at the state of his bed this morning. 

And he needs a shower. He can feel stubborn crumbs clinging to his naked body in an entirely unsettling manner. He tries to think through his actions with an air of practical detachment, but he can’t help the shame that rolls over him. 

He is long past the age where getting ripped on a bender and treating your bed like the cave of a bear preparing for hibernation is even a little bit defensible. His mind wanders again to Holmes, and he wonders what the man would have to say about him this morning. 

He tries to lock down that line of thinking, but now that he’s given form to the question, it proves impossible. _Why should he care about the opinion of a relative stranger? Just because he’s attracted to him? _

No. That’s not it. Anderson is well acquainted with the frantic drumbeat of lust roiling beneath his skin. He’s experienced attraction, arousal, and it had never called his life into question. Yet, somehow this infuriatingly prim man has cut right to the heart of Anderson’s insecurities with a penetrating look and a few kindnesses. 

Anderson slams his coffee mug onto the table and rises. 

It is one thing to be attracted to the man. Anderson is no stranger to the rugged appeal of a firm, muscled chest and a strong, square jaw. He’s even had the pleasure of a large worn hand coaxing him towards his own release. 

It is another thing entirely to have the acrid poisonous betrayal of _feelings_ bubbling up and seeping through the patchwork holes in his chest. He is dismayed to find a raw fluttering thing in the place where he’d thought he only had the shriveled husk of a heart too broken to beat. 

If he’d ever entertained the possibility of reviving his heart, he would have imagined it to be a soft, tender flow of feeling returning to its proper place. That’s not how it happens. It is the raw sting of a rushing wave over an open wound. It stings and burns no matter how he tries to twist away from it. He has no option but to grit his teeth and ride it out in the blind faith that there will be another side at the end of the pain. 

This discovery is too much to absorb as Anderson paces barefoot across his kitchen in the early morning sunlight. The promise of possibilities is entirely too dangerous to be entertained. 

* * *

After he showers and dresses, Anderson feels more balanced. It’s highly likely that the glass of water and two paracetamol are also helping. 

In the midst of his personal discoveries last night, he’d almost forgotten the notice from the mobile phone company. Luckily, it’s still in his pocket where he’d left it. 

Pulling up a chair, Anderson snaps open his laptop and gets to work researching everything he can about the company. He combs through the company website, several consumer forums, and a slew of recent news articles focused on the arrest and trial of one of the former officers of the company. Apparently he had been misappropriating funds for several years. Interesting, but not necessarily relevant for his purposes. 

Anderson’s mobile sits quietly next to his laptop, but he feels it like a phantom limb. He aches to reach out and text Holmes, like he’d promised. With the emotions of the morning still casting their shadow, it seems like too much. 

The cursor blinks at him from his laptop screen, and he realizes he has been staring without seeing for several minutes. This absolutely won’t do. He has a lead to investigate! He can’t afford to be distracted right now. 

He scoops up the mobile and types out a curt message: 

_What kind of company doesn’t have contact information on their website? Frankly appalling customer service._

Terrified by his own actions, Anderson flips his mobile face down and studiously ignores it in favor of his research. He finds a particularly engrossing thread about the company’s suspected ties to the government and hardly notices that an hour has passed. 

Anderson documents the pertinent information, then leans back and stretches. He’d forgotten what hours of hunched typing at a laptop would do to the body. Maybe he’ll dig out his old yoga mat and do some basic stretching tonight.

He gathers up his courage and flips the mobile over - no new messages. 

Anderson breathes a sigh of relief. He wants Holmes to respond, obviously, but silence is safe. He revels in that security and allows himself to text the man several more times over the course of the afternoon. He sends little mindless updates about his progress on the research. 

_Surprisingly little info on the website for a major mobile provider. Hiding something?_

_This bloke is all over the news lately. Seems like he made quite a few connections. Anyone you know?_

_Not gonna find much more online. Think I’ll have to call and charm the answers out of an employee. Got any advice?_

His texts skirt the line between case updates and downright flirting, but Holmes doesn’t respond so it’s all still safe. 

Anderson does make several calls and finally gets connected to Karen Whitehall, the young customer service manager on duty. He does his best to sound inexperienced and harried. He has all the information he needs on the notice, including the account number. It’s enough information to convince Karen that he is the account holder, even if he can’t answer all of her questions. She confirms that the number is currently active, though there is a payment due on the account. 

Anderson spends long minutes constructing a believable narrative that will get him what he wants. He represents himself as the account-holder, Mr. Holmes, a long-time customer of the company calling because he has lost his mobile. He had one of those find my mobile tracker apps installed, but unfortunately it’s not working. He asks her, so sweetly, if there isn’t someway the company can track it down. 

Regretfully she informs him that they can’t track it directly, but when he leans on her compassion and desire to truly help her customers, she offers an alternative solution.

With Karen’s help, he is able to change the contact email on the account to his own email address. She even agrees to set up a notification for him to let him know if the mobile is ever used. He thanks her and counts it as a win. At least he’ll know if someone is using the number or if it’s just being kept active. 

Anderson is so engaged with the thrill of the investigation and flush with his success that he fails to register the faint clicks and whirs in the background. Had he been a little more aware, he may have recognized the telltale sounds of a wiretap. If Anderson had noticed that the call was being listen-in on, he might not have been so surprised to find that as soon as he hangs up the call, his mobile is lighting up and buzzing insistently. He swipes to unlock and is met with a flurry of texts and two missed calls from Holmes.

He opens the text chain and scrolls to the top. 

_Anderson?_

_I’m going to assume I’m correct._

_Why are you researching a mobile phone company?_

_Which company?_

_Nevermind. Just got your message about the misappropriation of funds case._

_That’s been a tricky one. Why are you interested?_

_Anderson, who are you calling?_

_Stop! Right Now._

_Stop digging._

_Hello?_

_Answer me, damn it!_

The increasing vehemence and anxiety come through loud and clear in the messages. What could Holmes possibly know that would make a customer service call so dangerous?

He doesn’t have much time to ponder the question as his mobile begins to ring for a third time: 

_Incoming Call - Mycroft Holmes. _

**Author's Note:**

> Questions, concerns, suggestions? Come squawk with/at me on Tumblr (@daringlydomestic)! I'd honestly love to hear from you. Cheers!


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